The Opposite of an Aerial View
by AnneKB
Summary: Post-ep to "Bloodlines," written for the Elemental Ficathon over at Geekfiction. Sara faces the events of the night before - and the reasons behind them.


**_The Opposite of an Aerial View_**

A/N: Written for the elemental fication over at Geekfiction. My prompt was Air-Fireworks. How this came from that, I don't know.

This is a post-ep to "Bloodlines," and as such, it's a good solid dose of GSR angst. You have been warned.

* * *

Fireworks. That was what it was, fireworks.

They were exploding inside of her head.

She had finally fallen asleep – after spending most of the night in the bathroom, throwing up – and now she awoke to the worst headache she had ever imagined.

Fireworks exploding inside of her throbbing head.

And it wasn't because of the alcohol.

Really, it wasn't – she had drank far more in the past – in the past few weeks, even – without more than the hint of a hangover the next day. No, this had more to do with the fact that she had made a miserable mess of her life and had no idea what to do about it. It had more to do with the fact that she'd been picked up the night before for a DUI and they'd called Grissom – Grissom! – to bring her home.

It had been, without a doubt, one of the most humiliating nights of her life.

Right up there with the night she'd asked Grissom to dinner – and he'd said no.

Sara groaned as she dragged herself out of bed, half stumbling into the kitchen for some water, replaying the events of the night before in her head.

.09. Just over the legal limit, but not enough to be drunk enough to forget what was going on. And the lights in her rearview mirror had taken care of whatever buzz she'd had left at that point. Her breathalyzer test, the ride to the police station, the officer advising her that they'd called her supervisor – and then Grissom's arrival.

He had taken her hand – gently stroking the base of her thumb, a gesture she wasn't sure he was aware he had made – and brought her home. She hadn't said a word until he pulled into the parking lot of her apartment building, and neither had he. When she put her hand on the car door to get out, he had stopped her.

"We need to talk." He said.

"Now?" Sara asked.

"No," He said, "Not if you're not up to it."

"I'm not." She said, trying to hide the fact that she was desperate to get out of the car, away from him.

"Tomorrow, then," He said, "But we have to talk. It's important."

Sara nodded, and he let her go. He stayed in the lot until she had closed her apartment door behind her – she knew, because she had gone to her window to watch as he turned the corner and drove down the street, back towards the lab. If he hadn't waited, he would have turned the corner while she was still making her way up the stairs.

He was worried.

As if he had any right to be.

She had turned back to look at her dark apartment. She had tried to wrap her mind around what had just happened.

And then her head had started spinning, her stomach decided to join in, and she could no longer think about much of anything.

So now it was tomorrow, Sara thought as she drank from one of the bottles of water she kept in the fridge.

The phone rang, and Sara flinched – the noise seemed to ricochet around her aching head, amplified several times over.

"Hello?"

"Sara? How are you?"

It was Grissom. The sound of his voice hurt her head even more than the ringing phone.

"Okay…" She said, hesitantly.

No, I'm not okay, she thought, nothing is okay.

"We need to talk," He repeated.

"I know."

"What would be a good time?" He asked.

Never, Sara thought, "Anytime is fine."

"I'll be over in an hour," He said. Sara felt herself panic slightly – here? To her apartment? He was coming here?

"Um… okay." She was unable to think of a good argument against this.

"I'll see you soon," He said, and hung up.

Sara replaced the phone and looked around. Well, at least her apartment wasn't a complete disaster, although it had been a while since she'd cleaned anything. She started gathering some of the accumulated clutter, but her headache got in the way. It was too exhausting, and she fought the urge to crawl back into bed.

She made her way into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror.

Now there was a complete disaster.

It hurt just to see her own face looking back at her.

She didn't even look normal, it was as if she were staring at a stranger.

_Who the hell are you? And what the hell happened?_

Okay, a shower. Maybe she'd feel better after a shower.

The water washed over her, a warm soft spray that didn't help her headache but somehow released the tension from the rest of her body. She felt herself starting to relax a little – that was a good thing.

Until she started to cry.

The tears startled her – she hated crying. Especially for herself.

She'd cried for victims before, that didn't seem so bad. It was easier to cry for someone else.

But not for herself.

Now they came faster than she was able to stop them, even though she knew she only had an hour before Grissom would come knocking at her door. And that just made her cry harder, out of control sobs that had her leaning against the tile wall of the shower, trying to regain her balance.

Her balance. She had spent years trying to keep her balance. And she hadn't done too badly, either.

Until the last several months.

It had been building – Sara couldn't deny that. Ever since she'd been slapped in the face by Grissom's rejection of her, she'd tried to focus on work.

Except he was at work.

They'd had a few exceptionally bad cases, difficult ones, deaths that seemed even more senseless than normal. And she found it was too hard to bury herself in work. It seemed like there was a roadblock in every direction she turned.

Then there had been Debbie Marlin. And when she had stood outside of the interrogation room, listening to Grissom talk to the man who had killed her, everything made sense.

Not in a good way, but at least it made sense.

_I couldn't do it. _

The words had echoed in her head until she'd washed them away – and she kept washing them away. She'd never been much of a drinker, and probably by most standards she still wasn't. But it had started to make things complicated – especially that morning when she got called to an early morning scene after attempting to drink herself to sleep.

She'd only wanted to forget things. Obviously drinking wasn't going to help with that.

Finally, Sara managed to pull herself back into one piece. She got out of the shower, found a pair of jeans and a t-shirt to wear, and pulled her damp hair back into a ponytail. Normally she would have taken the time to straighten it, but she didn't feel up to it. It would be a curly mess in a few hours, she knew, but she didn't care. She knew her eyes were bloodshot and her face was red from crying. She knew she looked every inch as bad as she felt.

And she really just did not care.

The knock on the door came right on time, exactly an hour after he had called. Sara took a deep breath to calm her nerves before she opened the door.

"Good morning," He said. If he was startled by her appearance, he didn't show it.

"What's good about it?" Sara asked.

"Can I come in?"

She opened the door and let him in, and he turned to face her.

"Can I get you anything?" She asked. He shook his head.

"No, I'm fine. Thank you."

Sara shrugged, "So you wanted to talk." She gestured towards the couch, and he sat. She sat on the other side, trying not to look at him.

"I've arranged…" He stopped and took a breath, then looked away from her before continuing, "I've arranged for you to see a PEAP counselor."

"Why?" Sara asked.

"It's procedure… I'm afraid you don't have much choice, if you want to keep your job."

Did she?

"If… if you have a drinking problem…"

"I don't." Sara interrupted, and he shook his head before continuing.

"If you do," He said, "They cannot fire you as long as you're seeking help. It's illegal."

"So I go to this counselor or I lose my job." Sara said, rubbing her forehead. Her headache had started to get worse the minute he walked in the door.

"And… I signed you up for two weeks of vacation time."

Sara looked up at him.

"It's clear that you need it," He said, "It was clear earlier this week."

Sara sighed.

"I guess it was," She said.

"Look," He said, "Take the time. Go to the counselor, get everything together, and…"

He trailed off, and Sara fought back an urge to laugh.

As if two weeks off and a counselor would make everything better.

"And if I don't want to come back?" She asked.

The question hung in the air for a few minutes.

She had threatened to leave before. He'd lured her back with a plant – a plant that still sat by the window, a plant she had carefully watered and tended every day since - it had grown and flourished while she withered.

"That's your decision," He said, slowly. He seemed to consider his next words for a long time, and Sara was about to interrupt when he spoke again.

"I hope you will, though." He said.

Their eyes met for the first time since he'd walked in the door, and for the first time in a long while, Sara looked at him, really looked at him.

There was something there.

Fireworks exploding in his eyes.

"I'll go," She said, "To the counselor, that is."

"Good." He pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to her – the name and address of the Police Employees Assistance Program counselor, with the date and time of her first appointment penciled in. Sara gave it a glance and set it on the coffee table.

He stood to leave, and Sara followed him to the door. He turned and looked at her, as if he had something to say.

"Yeah?" She asked.

"I'll… see you in two weeks," He said, giving her a smile that didn't match the look in his eyes.

"Yeah," Sara said, trying to match his smile, nodding slightly. He nodded back and opened the door, and she closed it behind him as he left. After he was gone, she slumped against the door and started to cry again.

Why did he have to pull her back like this? Why couldn't she just give up?

Give _him_ up?

She had risked her career even though it was the only thing she had left that mattered, she had fallen so hard and so far, all over again, after working so hard for so much of her life to pull herself up – and all because of him? Only to hear that he didn't think she was worth the risk.

But she had seen his eyes.

They would always pull her back.

Grissom stood for a long while on the opposite side of the door, listening to Sara's tears. Each sob felt like a stab to his own heart.

He wanted to knock on the door again. He wanted to take Sara into his arms and pull her close. But he could not do it. He froze at the thought.

He wondered if he would ever be able to stop loving Sara – it was obvious to him, now, how much pain he had caused. She would be better off to let him go. Maybe now she would.

Even today she was beautiful, even as raw and exhausted as she was. He had wanted to hold her ever since he had walked in the door and saw that her eyes were red from crying.

And now she was still crying, and he could do nothing. He cursed silently, his own helplessness overwhelming in the face of a crisis.

He was not good at this, he wasn't half the man she deserved, or needed, and he never would be.

He tried to convince himself he was doing the right thing when he walked away, after he had heard her tears subside.

He kept trying to convince himself as he drove.

And yet he knew, somewhere deep inside, he would never be able to let her go.


End file.
